


Distance

by Desdimonda



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: 707 mid route, Angst, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mean 707 | Choi Luciel, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: A warm up drabble to kickstart me back into writing again ❤️I’m currently on day 8 of 7s route, and I got inspired. I’m sad.





	Distance

Did people always move this much, or was it just her?

The padding of her feet across the laminate; pat, pat. 

_ Wear shoes. Your feet are so small.  _

The shuffle of her legs as she shifted, restlessly, on the sofa, unable to commit to a single seated position for more than - at last average count -3.32 minutes. He glanced at her when the average shifted, granting himself the excuse his eyes needed a break. 

_ Then look at the wall. Or the window.  _

Her legs were basically bare, for all she wore. Pyjamas. Sure. Shorts so short he wondered why bother.

Luciel turned back to his screen, seeing nothing but a blur of numbers and chaos. She’d caught him looking again. He scolded himself. For looking, for thinking. None of it was within his right. This was a job, now. 

That was it. She was a client he needed to protect, and he had work to do.

_ Clack. _

Luciel spun around in her desk chair, jumping sharply. “What-“

“I just dropped my pen.” Nia was bent over the sofa, stretching lazily out to grab her fallen pen, a bare leg poised behind her languid body. 

_ You did that on purpose. _

Luciel watched, chewing his lip. The purple heather tattoo on her thigh was clearly visible from this angle, the crawling foliage stretching with her skin with her body as she moved, each which way. He had wanted to ask her about it. And the others, too. He could see another tattoo peek beneath her top every so often. But all he saw was a black point. Nothing more. 

He knew all he had to do was ask and he’d see it all.

But he deserved nothing.

Nia flopped back onto the sofa, lying on her stomach as she chewed the end of her dropped pen. 

He had wanted to ask what she was writing.

Luciel looked away.

“Why don’t you use your laptop to write?” He asked, rubbing his temple. The words on his screen were still blurred, indistinguishable. “It’s quicker.”

“I like the feel of pen to paper sometimes. Especially for my poems. Helps me feel the emotion of the words better.” She sat upright, slamming her notebook. “But, not today.”

Nia caught his tired gaze. Luciel held her eyes. They stared, the silence more poignant than any words either had said today. 

Luciel was the first to look away, slipping his headphones back on.

He feigned work for a little longer. Maybe if he pretended to know what he was looking at, it would come into focus. Instead, it didn’t take long for Nia to come.

Again.

“What?” he bit over the clatter of his headphones to keyboard.

“Coffee?” It was more a statement than a request. Her arm outstretched against his. Bare skin brushed his forearm as she reached for the cold cup that had barely been touched. 

He flinched against her skin.

Was everyone so warm, or was it just her?

“Leave it. I’ll get it myself.”

Light fingers tapped against the handle. “I’m making one for myself anyway.“

“And can’t you put on a hoodie or something? Or some proper pyjamas?” He cut her off, eyes staring at her bare forearm, twinned with his. It didn’t move at his words.

It resisted. She persisted. 

“I’ll do what I want in my own home,” she said, fingers latching onto the mug, one by one.

“It’s not your home though, is it?” he snapped, trying to take the mug back. But the small struggle sent both the contents and mug to the floor, shattering. 

Nia stepped back, staring at the droplets of coffee stain her legs. “No. But this body is. And no-one will tell me what the hell to wear.” She brushed past him, loudly clattering the kitchen cupboards. 

Luciel stared at the mug, watching the cold coffee spread, lapping at the shards, devouring all that remained.

He blinked, and saw Nia there instead, devoured by his lies, his truths, by the cold bile of what he’d become. She couldn’t see what she’d become if he let her in. And a part of him was glad she would never know. There was a sadness that lingered beneath those green eyes; through her words, penned, and not; in her smile - a smile practiced and automatic, because it was his too. 

She deserved anything, but him.

Luciel lifted his head. “Nia?” 

The clattering in the kitchen had stopped. But it wasn’t silent. 

“Leave me alone. Isn’t that you favourite catchphrase?” The words stumbled through a sob, one that made her clutch the worktop so hard she bent a nail. 

For a moment, he almost did. Luciel hovered between kitchen and living room, toes curling over the line as he watched her cry. As tears rolled over her flushed cheeks, as red hair stuck to skin, wet and messy, as arms shook, unsure of what to do.

“Full disclosure, I’m not good at this,” he mumbled as he took the first step.

“We’re on full disclosure now?” said Nia as she watched him approach, tentative, but willing. 

Luciel smiled. And it was genuine. “Just this once.”

Nia couldn’t help an awkward, messy laugh. “I hate you.”

He reached out, waiting for her acceptance. She dipped her head. 

“It’s cool, I hate me too.” His words were close, closer, as was his touch, as the back of his hand slid up, up, and down, her arm. A shiver reverberated through his fingers, echoing the beat of her heart.

He stepped closer.

Nia watched, the tears still falling as she watched, watched. 

“Pick a side, Luciel.”

Closer.

“I can’t...yet,” he breathed against her head, the words whispering through the strands of her hair, sticking to his lips. Careful, he pried her hands from the counter, one by one. He could feel the tremble in them still, and just held both in one of his. They were so small, fragile, unblemished, unlike his marred touch. He watched her small fingers curl against his palm. A small gesture he was unworthy of. But yet, he felt it. He held it. He’d remember it.

Nia looked up. It was only then did he realise their intimacy. Back to counter, chest, to chest.

Another tear fell. He brushed it away with a thumb. 

“What is this?” challenged Nia. Her hands had fallen, and steadied themselves elsewhere, skin to skin.

“Does it have to be  _ something?”  _ whispered Luciel, his fingers gliding along the strap of her top, until it wasn’t there. “Can’t it just…”

 

_ -be. _


End file.
